Those Left Behind
by tomsriddle
Summary: "On this nineteenth of the ninth, it is the nineteenth time in nineteen years that he's visited this wretched place that stinks of death and sorrow, but a still unbreakable faith that someday things will get better, and he'll keep coming back until he can walk no more." ONE SHOT. Slightly AU. DMxHG


_A/N: I own nothing._

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_Hermione Jean Granger_

_19 September 1979 – 2 May 1998_

_A beloved daughter and friend_

_The brightest witch of her age_

_Mudblood_

The cool September wind nips at the back of Draco Malfoy's neck and he tightens his scarf with an annoyed huff. He's never been a fan of this weather; too cold and inconvenient for his liking. Autumn has settled down in London. The trees are slowly losing their green and shedding their leaves, readying themselves for the cold winter that lies ahead.

The graveyard is empty today, but then again, it usually is. Barely anybody visits those lost in the battle that ripped through Hogwarts nineteen years ago anymore. Nobody would like to be caught dead mourning the losses of the blood-traitors, except a few of the parents and families; the Weasleys are the first that comes to mind.

The Dark Lord claimed he was honouring the dead and their families, allowing this graveyard to hold the bodies of those valiant and loyal to their school instead of having them burnt, but Draco admits he thinks otherwise. Perhaps this graveyards serves only as a reminder of what will happen to those who defy their Lord.

His lip curls in disgust as he rubs his leather-gloved thumb over the word 'Mudblood' on Hermione Granger's gravestone. Lord Voldemort only saw it fitting to broadcast everyone's blood status, and it seemed, he was the only one who didn't agree with this. Having their blood statuses scratched onto the wall is humilliating. Draco looks from Granger's headstone to the one right beside it.

_Harry James Potter_

_31 July 1980 – 2 May 1998_

_A valliant fighter and a beloved friend_

_The Chosen One_

_Half-blood_

Harry and Hermione's headstones are located further from everyone else's, right at the back of the cemetery near a mausoleum for that one professor ─ what was his name? He can actually barely remember any of this anymore, it's been lost over these nineteen years. Their graves are hidden behind a clump of silver wood trees, out of view on Voldemort's command, but Draco has never at any trouble finding it. Only nineteen years back, Draco remembers, when he stumbled past the graves, searching for the specific site. _Her _site. He found it after hours of looking, past Lavender Brown's grave, past Ron Weasley's grave, past Collin ─ or was it Dennis? ─ Creevey's grave.

He looks over his shouder at the sound of feet padding on the crisp brown leaves. It's just a cat who, wandering around the graveyard, walking through the maze of graves. It stops it front of him and watches him, the pale yellow light from the brass lamp over his head illuminting its green eyes and its tabby fur. He stares at the cat for a few moments, onyx eyes meeting emerald before he loses his patience and pulls out his wand and points it at the feline.

"Piss off," he snaps. He doesn't like the cat watching him as he kneels at the grave of one of those who he's been raised to hate.

The cat dips its head and turns away before disappearing into the shadows.

_It was just a cat, Malfoy, _he tells himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. _Just a bloody cat. _

In all his nineteen visits, he's never come across the stray. It was a fairly old cat, its tabby fur was greying and it walked away rather slowly, and Draco mentally asks himself how the fleabag is still alive; it looked frail and worn and like each step took a large chunk of its energy. The cat watched him with a look of ─ and he swears he going mental for saying this ─ well, resent. He's used to the look; the few half-bloods in Diagon Alley only stopped looking at him with the same expression only a few weeks ago, when he was with his son. His eyes widen as realisation crossed his features.

It can't be. It's not her. She's old, _too _old now. She's stuck in some old age home for wizards. If it was her, and she actually saw him… He shivers at the thought.

He looks away from the path the cat took and back at Hermione's tombstone, deciding to think no more of the uncomfortable prospect of encountering his old professor.

He knows the message off by heart. _The brightest witch of her age. _She truly was, and never failed to remind him after she would win another one of the numberous arguments.

His throat goes dry as he recalls the last time he saw Granger. Harry had been brought back by that oaf of a giant, Hagrid. He had been standing beside her, their shoulders not quite touching; he didn't want his parents to notice. Her hand had been clasped in Weasel's, and Draco had felt his blood boil, and an urge to knock Weasley's teeth out for thinking he could do that. She was Draco's, not Ron's, but Ron had never been able to come to terms with it after he and Potter found about their secret liaisons a year prior to the battle.

His mother had called for him from behind Voldemort, and he could hear Hermione's breath hitch in her throat when she saw him tense and hesitate. She whispered for him to go, that this was his family, and he mumbled back that he would come back for her. He'd given her hand a squeeze behind his back as he stepped forward, careful to let it go unseen (by everyone, but Ron, it did) and he threw one last look over his shoulder and she offered him a small smile. He was going to come back for her. He was supposed to come back for her and they were supposed to be together.

He'd only realised that he wasn't going to keep his promise when Voldemort ordered his Death Eaters to attack and when he spun around, he saw his Aunt Bella sprinting staight for Granger. An ear-splitting scream had shattered the air and after a blinding flash of green, Granger dropped to the ground, unmoving. His knees had buckled under him and he only saw Weasley meeting the same fate before he was jerked off his feet when his mother used side-Apparition on herself and her son.

His thoughts, for the first time ever, drift to the Weasleys, who were were bloody fortunate, he thinks, getting off because Voldemort thought it a sin to completely wipe out a pure-blood family, even if it was the Weasleys, dregs of the Wizarding Society. The woman and her husband haven't been the same though since they lost four of their sons. Since then, Arthur Weasley has been dismissed from the Mininstry and has gotten work elsewhere, at a Muggle store or something; Draco didn't care enough to find out exactly.

The wind grows more agitated, tugging at Draco's scarf and his cap. The trees rustle and a slight drizzle begins to fall from the sky, but he doesn't notice this. After he's finished here, he'll go back home, back to his wife and son and his mother and father and to Lord Voldemort and the dull reality that Dark has conquered Light, and he'll wait in earnest for three hundred and sixty-five days to pass before he'll allow himself to come back.

He hates this graveyard, if he has to be honest. For others, for _them, _it's a reminder of the power of their Dark Lord and that the strongest opponent will come out the victor in everything. For him, it's a constant reminder of his cowardice and his fear to fight for what he knew what right but was too afraid to say so.

The only other grave, despite his dislike for this vile place, he's really visited was the one of his cousin, Nymphadora. He visited her once late in the evening of the nineteenth three years ago after he left from work, thinking that nobody would be there, but he was wrong. His aunt and his second cousin once removed were standing at the graves of Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin, their heads bowed in prayer and a boquet of purple flowers in each of their hands.

Draco had backed away, deciding not to ruin this awfully private moment ─ although, since when did he care what he ruined? ─ but announced his prescence when he stepped on a branch.

"Draco," his disowned aunt had whispered. "What are you doing here?"

Teddy had looked at him, his bright blue eyes wide like a child's, and Draco couldn't blame him. What the hell would Draco Malfoy, Pure-blood Prince, be doing at the graveyard of blood traitors?

Draco hadn't answered her, unsure what to say and had shook his head quickly before backing away.

"No," Andromeda had said softly. "Stay, please. Dora wouldn't have minded."

And so he stayed, standing between two members of the family he never knew, watching as they prayed for his cousin and her husband. He swiftly made for Hermione's grave later without saying goodbye and made a silent promise that this wouldn't happen again, that he would come by even later. He never saw again them in the graveyard, and he never told anyone about it. His family would be furious to hear that he had been carrying on with blood traitors

Draco snaps back to the present, making a mental note to stop by his cousin's grave again next time. He went early tonight, and is beginning to make a frequent habit of it. Maybe next time he'll bring flowers, but it's still unlikely. He's finally come to the realisation that she's his blood, pure or not, and she died fighting for what she believed in, unlike him.

Nineteen years, it's taken him, but nineteen years can change a person, despite what anyone thinks.

When he was in his fourth year, he had everything planned out. He'd leave Hogwarts with six, maybe seven OWLs and more NEWTs than Potter. He'd get a high paying job with the Ministry, and follow in his father's footsteps by marrying a pretty pure-blood from a wealthy family and living a luxurious life until he died. Much to his annoyance, his life plan had changed on the night of the Yule Ball, when he saw Granger coming down the stairs in her periwinkle robes and taking that Bulgarian Seeker Viktor Krum's arm. Ron Weasley hadn't been the only irritated fourth year that night.

After Christmas, Draco decided something. That whatever the hell happens, happens, but he would really like it not to involve Hermione Granger. How wrong he had been, he thinks.

Sometimes he finds himself wondering how it would have been if it was 'Draco and Hermione Malfoy' instead of 'Draco and Astoria Malfoy'. Sometimes he wonders how it would have been if it had been Hermione who Scorpius would be calling 'Mum' instead of Astoria. Sometimes he wonders what would have happened if she hadn't told him to go back to his family because he didn't belong with them after they encountered each other in the Room of Requirement. Sometimes he wonders how the war would have ended if she begged him to stay with her and fight for his school. Sometimes he regrets doing what he did.

He smiles slightly as he imagines the family portrait of himself, his wife and his son. For a brief moment, Astoria's face is replaced with Granger's, and she's wearing a brilliant smile on her face. It's an even better family picture.

Scorpius is nothing like his parents, and as much as it shocks him, and how he wishes it wasn't so, Draco has to admit that Scorpius is a bit like her. He's smart and bossy with a sharp wit and does what he chooses is right. He might've ended up in Gryffindor if the concept of houses hadn't been abolished. Scorpius, unlike the rest of his family, doesn't believe in blood purity, but he will have no Muggle-born friends, much to his family's satisfaction. He'll have a lot of pure-blood friends and maybe a few half-blood friends, but definitely no Mudblood friends; simply because there will be none of them learning at Hogwarts. None at all.

Draco sighs and rubs his face with his leather-clad hands. He's tired now, and the journey back to Malfoy Manor will be a strenuous one; not because it's long, but because he's exhausted. Like he does each year, he'll Apparate just outside the gates of Malfoy Manor and he'll walk the rest of the way, down the long brick path, through the willow tree forest, and maybe he'll visit the hedge maze; it's always been a nice place to think.

He puts the small bouquet of white acacias and casts a glance over Hermione's gravestone, reading the message again. He frowns slightly, the lines creasing his pastel forehead and the edges of his silver eyes.

He looks around as he pulls his wand out. Nobody will see him, nobody is here. He points his wand at Hermione's gravestone and wonders why he never did this before. He takes a deep breath and a short flash of light bursts from his wand.

Nobody will notice, nobody will visit. Mrs Weasley doesn't visit Potter's grave often anymore; maybe once or twice she'll leave flowers for him, but they're always a wilted mess by the time Draco comes and sometimes, _if _he's feeling kind that day, he'll leave a flower from Hermione's bouquet on Potter's grave. Hermione's grave, on the other hand, hasn't seen a visitor since, well, exactly a year ago; her parents are too frightened to visit their own daughter because of the likely possibilty that they'll meet the same fate as her at the hand of the Death Eaters.

He pockets his wand and sraightens his cap as the rain pours faster. He didn't notice the rain hardening. He pulls up his collar against the wind and sighs again and turns away from the gravestone.

"Until next year, then, Granger," he says softly.

The icy autumn air bites his cheeks and he makes a noise of irritation as he weaves through the field of graves. He throws one last look at the two distant graves, conceled by the silver trees and his usually cool steel-grey eyes soften slightly. His hard exterior that is well known by his family and friends crumbles a little, every time he comes here. His wife has never seen this side and neither has his own son. Narcissa had only seen it once; when she was consoling her only son in his room after he saw his Aunt Bellatrix kill Hermione. He'd never been so upset, he'd never cried so hard in his life and it was all because of Hermione Granger, Muggle-born. He didn't care about that Ron Weasley, or his annoying older brother; that one who always whined about himself being Head Boy, or the Curse-Breaker brother, or that one twin. He couldn't care less about Harry or anyone else. It was just because of Hermione.

He leaves wth a frown on his face, completeing his annual ritual, thinking maybe he could stay a bit longer. A few more minutes won't hurt anyone. But then again, his wife might notice that he's gone if she stirs and feels his absence on his side of the bed. He exits through the black barred gates and doesn't look back again, knowing that if he does, he might just end up staying with her the whole night.

On this nineteenth of the ninth, it is the nineteenth time in nineteen years that he's visited this wretched place that stinks of death and sorrow, but a still unbreakable faith that someday things will get better, and he'll keep coming back until he can walk no more.

_Hermione Jean Granger_

_19 September 1979 – 2 May 1998_

_A beloved daughter and friend_

_The brightest witch of her age_

_His Mudblood_

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_So, I did this literally right after I finished the 41 chapters of 'Isolation' by Bex-chan (definitely one of the most fantastic Dramione fanfics evaar) and my feels were everywhere, __**everywhere,**__everywhere,__ EVERYWHERE, EVERRRRRYWHERE! And so came along this thing. It's only slightly AU in the sense that dark has beaten light, and Lord Voldemort is now the most powerful wizard, not Harry Potter or Dumbledore (ehehe! They're both dead!) Personally, I'm very proud of this one shot; never been too good at angst, but I feel like I did a pretty good job. If you agree, please review, and if you don't… please review, and if you __ just review, please? XD_

_Note: The Acacia (the flowers Draco brings to Hermione's grave) is a symbol of secret love, exactly what Draco and Hermione had during their last two-ish years together, in my head._

_And lastly, I wish to take no credit for the lovely cover thing. Found it lurking on my computer, don't know who made it, but I didn't, so if this is yours, then well done! Or something.  
_


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